


Bawdy

by CopperContessa_13



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drinking, Eventual Romance, F/M, Female Reader, Flirting, Fluff, Mystery, Reader-Insert, Romance, Suggestive Themes, soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:34:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26861482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperContessa_13/pseuds/CopperContessa_13
Summary: You are a human woman attending the coronation of Aragorn. Despite making a fool of yourself in front of the fellowship, you're requested by name to stay for the festivities. Sometimes, it's good to be bawdy.
Relationships: Merry Brandybuck/Reader, Merry Brandybuck/You, Merry/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	1. The Crowning of the King, the Making of a Fool

**Author's Note:**

> I finished watching all three LoTR movies last weekend and instantly became enamored with the series. Here's something silly that popped into my head. Constructive criticism is welcome, but please be gentle. I'm very new to the lore of the series.

The sun was almost fully above the eastern horizon. It illuminated the lush grasses of the field, the bright blue sky and made Minas Tirith shine brilliantly. After a morning's worth of walking, you were nearly at the threshold of its entrance. Though you had set off for the coronation as soon as the first rays of day peaked above the horizon, you could tell the balcony of the castle was already half-filled with with other guests. You quickened your pace and promptly almost toppled into the ground after stepping on the hem of your flowing gown. Grunting in minor frustration, you picked up bundles of ornate cloth in both hands and continued forward.

You had a horse that could have made the journey from your home to the castle. It certainly would have made it a bit easier on your feet. Though, ol' Greysen was going deaf and blind and you did not know if you'd find somewhere safe to tie him down during the ceremony. If he wandered out into the fields, you were unsure if you'd ever find him again.

You tripped on your dress again, cursing as you scooped up a third handful. Did spending days in knee-length skirts and the occasional pair of trousers really made you this clumsy? Pah. Maybe you should have insisted on a slightly shorter hem when you took it to the seamstress. How pretty the billowing fabric looked when it pooled slightly at your feet, though… 

A blouse, overskirt and leather bustier were your typical garb. Extravagant, silky fabrics like this typically were not ideal for working around the home. Plus, since the passing of your father, you lived alone and rarely worried about looking presentable for company. He left you the cottage and, though it was just an old shack on a modest piece of land, it allowed you to live without wandering into the city for much. Being a single woman who lived alone on the far outskirts of Minas Tirith, you prompted plenty of rumors. Oh well.

You should have known the elven dress would feel foreign on your human body. The slinky thing was given to you by an elleth who passed by your home last summer. In exchanged for a weeks worth of vegetables and salted meat, she gave you a blue dress with billowing sleeves and delicate silvery patterns sewn into its fabric. Though airy enough to be worn during high sun months, its layers of fabric made it look thicker than it was.

It was perfect for you! Blue was your favorite color. The slightly plunging neckline made you feel fashionable. But alas, you had nowhere to wear it.

Before now, that is.

You were near when Sauron fell. The air changed when he was defeated. It shook your home and upset your sow. Moved by a swell of hope that bubbled up in your chest, you gathered your stores of medicinal herbs and bandages and headed towards the field of battle to see if you could be of any help. You helped move the injured into medical tents and set the bones of those with only minor injuries. You helped administer medicine to those recovering and held the hands of others as they succumbed to their wounds. Though it was bleak, you felt freer now that Gondor was safe and had regained its king. For the first time in a long time, you looked forward to what was to come.

It was not a question of whether or not you would gather with the crowds to see Aragorn assume his throne. Whether you could actually manage to look presentable enough to stand amongst royalty and heroes was another issue. So much time spent by yourself with no company to speak of aside from your pigs and chickens had made you devolve in some ways. Not all, but some common rules of etiquette had escaped you. For now, at least you looked the part of someone regal.

You had bathed in lilac water, scrubbed your hands and face clean of filth, made sure your gown was immaculately kept and fashioned your hair like other ladies did for big parties. A small leather bag typically used for holding chicken seed was secured by a thick belt that cinched your waist. Though it somewhat ruined the posh illusion you were trying so hard to convince others of, you felt naked trying to leave home without it. You’d found a more acceptable purpose for it, at least.

Ascending the castle, you chose a spot on the balcony behind a group of halflings. You stood in amiable silence for some time before impatiently glancing around you. The crowd had grown significantly and the sun was perched well in the sky now. You fidgeted slightly.

“What are we waiting on? Does the king need to finish tea time?” you muttered.

“Actually, Gandalf has not arrived yet. He’s leading the ceremony. Of course, it could be because he is enjoying the last of his pipe,” the hobbit in front of you mused.

Aghast that someone had _actually_ heard you say that out loud, you clasped a hand to your chest and let out a short laugh.

“My apologies. I do not wish to offend. I just regret not tending to my animals before venturing out here. Chickens become peckish in more than one way after a missed meal.”

“Them and me both. No need to apologize, miss. May I ask your name?”

You told him.

“Are you familiar with Gandalf?” you asked. “How late do you think he’ll be?”

Another hobbit, this one darker haired, leaned back to respond.

“A wizard is never late,” he said in a funny voice. “He arrives precisely when he means to.”

They both chuckled at the quip, but you didn’t quite understand the joke. Smiling at them politely, your gaze drifted slightly to the left which is when you took note of a third hobbit. The way he stared in your direction with his mouth slightly agape, it seemed almost like he was entranced by something. Perhaps by your appearance? No, no, no… it couldn’t be.

Your face twisted slightly in confusion as you looked over your shoulder to see what else might be holding his gaze so intently. The castle was beautiful, though not more so than other times. Maybe someone in the crowd had a particularly interesting outfit that you just didn’t quite notice. Unsure what had caught the halfling’s eye, you turned back around. He had turned forward again, though.

“I can’t imagine he’ll be much longer, miss,” the first hobbit said, gently tugging your sleeve to regain your attention. “At least the weather is nice. A lovely day for a crowning, wouldn't you agree?”

“Mm,” you hummed. “At least for now. Gondor grows surprisingly warm at midday. If Gandalf is any longer, I’m not sure how nice the weather will stay. Er, tell me. Did you eat breakfast this morning?”

“Oh, yes, but just the one,” the hobbit replied, a bit deflated.

You reached into the leather bag at your waist and pulled out two somethings wrapped in yellow and blue handkerchiefs. You gave one to your new friend who went wide-eyed once he unwrapped it. Inside the cloth was a square bun, golden and slightly warm. 

“Well, I was going to have both of these for myself, but good food is meant for sharing, isn’t it?”

“It smells heavenly!” he said in an excited whisper. The way his large toes tapped on the ground, it seemed as if he was trying to keep from dancing for joy. 

“I promise it tastes even better,” you said eating nearly half the treat in one bite. “It’s a pain to stoke a whole fire just for a sweet roll or two, but they taste best when slightly warmed.”

The halfling took one bite and paused. His eyes then closed in bliss, savoring the taste as he slowly chewed.

“Fresh strawberries and cream,” he sighed with a smile. 

“Precisely! Just warmed enough for the bun to be hot and the filling mostly cool.”

“I missed picking season,” he said incredulously. “I thought I’d never know this taste again— it’s real berries! Not preserves! How can they taste this fresh at this time of year?”

“An upright women would never tell. I can’t go giving you all of my baking secrets.”

He nodded and gave a small shrug, accepting your reply without fuss. 

Oh, why not. 

You looked around hastily before leaning down, discretely whispering in his ear that stored fruit tastes fresher if it is buried among the ice chips used to keep meats cold. However, before eating them, they must be allowed to shed their frost in the hot sun for a full day.

“Thank you, I’ll certainly remember that. But I thought you said upright women don’t tell their secrets?”

You brushed your hands free of crumbs and tucked away the handkerchief. Still chewing, you gathered your skirt up on one side and unhitched a metal flask that was secretly secured to your bare hip. The hobbit let out a small “oh!” and blushed slightly, looking away from your exposed thigh. He seemed to be the only one, though, based on the feeling that many eyes were on you now.

By chance, you glanced up and locked eyes with that silly little hobbit who had spied on you before. He gulped, the prominent knot in his throat bobbing slightly. You winked at him without thinking much of it. You could see a small flush grow on his cheeks before he turned his head upwards and began intently staring at the sky. You smirked slightly.

“Would you like some Homebrew? Made it myself,” you offered, sloshing the contents of the flask near the first hobbit’s ear.

His nose wrinkled slightly, definitely picking up on the bitter scent of liquor made from fermented vegetable scraps. 

“No thanks,” he said wryly.

You took a hearty gulp of the stuff and used the back of your hand to wipe the excess off your lips. Though not a sweet drink, it did its job effectively. You secured the flask again before answering his initial question.

“Maybe I’m not all that upright, sir. It’s okay to look now. I put it away again,” you said. “If I could only pick one of all my days to be improper, I would choose now. The king has returned to his rightful seat and good has triumphed. I, for one, applaud every bawdy celebration taking place in Middle-earth today.”

The hobbit gave a stiff nod of agreement, occupying himself with finishing his roll. He said nothing when handing you back the handkerchief that held it. You suspected he was still flustered from the sight of your skin.

“I apologize if I made you uncomfortable. I live alone.”

He flashed a peculiar glance at you. Before you could elaborate, though, the doors of the castle creaked open and revealed Gandalf the White. Aragorn stepped forward to receive his crown. You watched the ceremony with bated breath and wide, starry eyes. The swell of pride you felt in your chest when he walked by withered when he addressed your new halfling friend. 

You lifted your skirt in front of Samwise Gamgee of the Fellowship of the Ring, you realized in horror. When Aragorn bowed to his brave friends, you followed his lead and hid your reddened face by looking intently at the ground. So much shame could have been spared if you had remembered to ask the halfling his name when he asked for yours. 

Of all the damn manners to forget!


	2. The Return to the Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a pithy goodbye to Sam, you set off for home before being reluctantly summoned to the castle again. Well, reluctantly at first, anyway.

Due to your behavior at the crowning, part of you ached to disappear from the world. You wished you had brought a dull-colored cloak to aid in your quest to become as plain looking and unremarkable as possible. Pretty elven dresses, it turns out, do little to help you follow that quest.

On the very rare occasion you decided to wander through the shops and eateries of Minas Tirith without an agenda, you always made sure to stop at Pembley's Pub. Sometimes, you'd spend hours salivating at just the thought of their famous three meat and vegetable stew. (You begged Pembley for the recipe, but he refused to tell you what the third meat was). To come all this way without eating a bowl felt like a waste. Your animal friends, unfortunately, would have to wait a bit longer for your return.

The building was noisy and bustling with patrons. You grabbed a table by yourself in a secluded corner of the back room, hoping that distancing yourself from the crowd would be enough to dissuade anyone from trying to make your company. Nevertheless, one or two gruff men walked by and tried to wear you down with sweet nothings and unsubtle flirtatious comments. Entirely not in the mood, you just sneered at them coldly until they went away.

You were here for stew and stew alone.

Soon after ordering, the bar maid unceremoniously slid a pint and a bowl towards you. Without exchanging words or even making eye contact, you pressed two coins into her open palm. You took a sip of your drink as she walked away. The stew still needed to cool a bit before you could tuck in.

When the coronation concluded, you'd waved a weak hand towards Sam in a pithy goodbye and fell back into the dense crowd without another word. As you hurriedly pushed pass others while saying small apologies for cutting through, you could have sworn you heard someone call your name and beg you to wait. Still, you daren’t turn around to find out if what you heard was true or a trick played by your ears. 

Your face was hot with embarrassment and your heart threatened to burst out of your chest and on to the stoney balcony. Typically a straight-faced woman, this flustered sensation you were experiencing was new and unwelcome. You were mortified. The quicker you left the ceremony, the sooner the feeling's grasp may loosen from your thoughts.

The streets of Minas Tirith were emptier than usual as many had gathered on the balcony or met with friends to celebrate the crowning. It made it exceptionally easy for you to briskly walk through the middle of the main roads, allowing the slope of the streets give you momentum down towards where you first entered the city. Weary of tripping, you carried nearly half of your gown's skirt unceremoniously in one hand. Your morning had made you too tense to fret over causing a fuss for baring your legs in a place where anyone could see them.

Let them try to question me, you daringly challenged. Only in your mind, of course.

Your free hand worked to undo your intricate hairstyle. Though you slightly bemoaned the act, it felt as if it had to be done. It was strange of you to try to mimic the trends of the city. As if you could ever have an uncomplicated air of beauty like those girls do...

You stopped in suddenly your tracks and let out a small, strangled noise. Your fingers had failed to comb through a knotted tress of hair, causing you to tug it by accident. Though a minuscule complication, you felt at your breaking point. Nonetheless, you resolved to remain calm.

Leaning against the nearest building, you dropped your skirt and untangled your hand from your hair. You closed your eyes, inhaled deeply and conceded defeat to whatever force in Middle-earth was working against you today. When you opened your eyes again, your vision landed on the distant sign that hung in front of Pembley's Pub. A meal there would bring you comfort before your journey home.

Still waiting on your stew to cool, you closed your eyes and tried to ward off lingering feelings of embarrassment by thinking of your small farm. It was comforting to remember that you'd soon be able to trade this dress for a favorite, familiar one and put this morning's events behind you. You’ll refill your leather bag with seed and feel the grass under your feet as you lean over the old wooden fence to feed the chickens. You’ll talk to the pigs briefly before taking ol’ Greysen to stretch his long legs at the meadow. You'll busy your fingers by making a nice crown of yellow flowers for him to wear (and later eat). 

"And you’ll never have to think about today’s silly blunder ever again," you assured yourself under your breath. 

A small smile flicked across your face, content with the thought. Picking up a spoon, you were poised to eat the first bite of your stew when you heard a small commotion rise at the front of the pub. 

“Meurilae! What brings you here?” you heard the voice of Pembley call. 

"Personal business today, Bren. Don't have time for a brew, unfortunately."

She mentioned you by name and described your appearance and asked the owner if he had seen you. Though you couldn't discern what followed, you imagined he had motioned towards the tavern's back room. You grimaced when you realized the sound of clicking heels was advancing in your direction. Still, you watched amusedly as the crowd parted down the middle for a figure that was too short for you to see yet. 

Meurilae was a portly woman in her mid-forties. Her fiery red hair matched her boisterous personality, something you became quite fond of during your time working alongside Gondor's healers. Known as one of the best medics in the region and head of medicine in Minas Tirith, she was the first to welcome you when you arrived to help care for the wounded. Though unassuming at first, she proved to be a firebrand and valiant leader. Not only could she coordinate her teams well, she was a naturally humorous person.

In short, she was absolutely the kind of woman you wanted to be around.

When she came into view, you noted her wide frame was dressed in a fancy scarlet robe. As she was already starting to hunch with age, you could tell the garment was purposefully tailored to fall firmly at her ankles so she didn't have to fuss with it much. Her only jewelry was a golden circlet that wrapped around her forehead.

Though you would normally accept Meurilae's company without question, you knew something had to be amiss if she was walking around the city requesting you by name. _Especially_ at a time like this.

Meurilae's valor during the war and title no doubt guaranteed her an invitation to the highly anticipated celebration that followed Aragorn's coronation. Only Middle-earth's finest were afforded an invite, meaning the party would be full of war heroes and royals from distant lands. After talking with one of your merchant friends, you learned barrels of a rare wine had been imported for the occasion. Considering how much Meurilae loved her wine, you knew whatever she was fetching you for was of the utmost urgency.

You switched your grimace to a friendlier expression when she approached. 

“Hey ho, friend! Come to join me for a bowl of stew? I also have some spare Homebrew if you prefer that,” you said while patting the flask on your hip.

“Hardly,” she chuckled.

You smiled cheekily. Meurilae despised the stuff and you knew it.

Though a second chair was at the table, she declined to sit in it. Though her wrinkled face was stretched in a smile, you noted that it looked somewhat forced. The impatient tapping of her heel was also making the floorboards squeak slightly.

“Why don't you have a seat, friend? We can both relax while I tell you about the most _fascinating_ thing I did at the coronation today...”

“You mean the thing where you shared your breakfast with a certain hobbit and then shared your bare leg with all of his friends? Oh, I have heard plenty of it already.”

You nearly choked.

"Relax! Relax, relax," she soothed. "I promise it has been all good things."

You couldn't help but laugh a little at that.

“Am I in trouble?”

"No. Unless you consider an invitation to the king's banquet a punishment.”

“What? As the entertainment?” you snorted. 

“As a guest.”

You stared expectantly at Meurilae, waiting for her face to crack or for her to relent and admit it was a joke. When she didn't, panic set in.

“I have no business there,” you said flatly. 

“Oh, I think you do. You’ve been requested by name.”

“By whom?”

"By a certain hobbit who was quite taken with you this morning. Now come! No more questions. It's all about to start and we still have a bit of a journey before we reach the castle."

"Meurilae—"

“Look,” she said with a faint sternness. “Perhaps you question a day where you have full permission to carry on like a king, but I do not."

"But my animals—"

"Will be fine without you for one day," she cut in. "You deserve to have time that is just for enjoying yourself. Time to eat and drink all you want. Maybe even time to learn what other parts of you interest hobbit boys, hm?"

You felt your ears go red. Her implying that Samwise Gamgee had taken in interest in you sparked butterflies in your stomach.

"So, friend, this is the last time I’m asking. Feel free to sit here and pay for your drink and food, I'm off to eat my fill for free.”

The last bit convinced you.

“Alright, alright. You are right. This is a once in a lifetime chance and my farm will not suffer if I am gone during daylight. I guess I can leave my stew if you are in such a hurry to return..." you said a bit dejected. "But why send you to fetch me? You are no servant of the king.”

“Ah, true," Meurilae smirked. "But I was the only one who knew where to look for 'the beautiful woman in blue’ he babbled on about. I knew how much you longed to wear that beautiful elven dress. I also figured you would not leave the city without visiting Pembley's. I just know you too well, dear!”

“He called me beautiful?”

Your heart fluttered at that word. Samwise Gamgee thought you were beautiful. The brave hobbit who had valiantly helped Frodo on his journey to destroy the One Ring thought you were beautiful. One of Middle-earth's greatest heroes told others that he found you beautiful.

“In those words exactly. Who knows? Maybe you will have more than just your chickens to tend to tonight,” Meurilae said with a wink.

With a giddy smile, you compelled her to be quiet. Before you could rebut what she said, she grasped your hand and led you out of the pub. As she pulled you along, you turned back to stare longingly at your untouched stew.

Meurilae led you to an obscured entrance at the base of the castle. She led you part way down a large hallway before diverting to a small room with polished stone walls. A handful of female servants were waiting inside to receive you. Desperate to join the party upstairs, she bid you a quick farewell and set off.

Hair mussed and the hem of your gown slightly dirty from the filth of the streets that did manage to brush against it, you were in no position to make an immediate appearance at such a regal party. Thankfully, with help, returning to a presentable state was quick work. 

One helped remove your gown so she could make the dirty bits clean. Another helped gently scrub your hands and face. You still smelled of florals from bathing earlier. Noticeably, though, the scent was mixed with hints of something earthier. You later recognized it as the musky stench that hung inside of Pembley’s. No one offered you perfumes, though, so it must not have been too offensive.

One reshaped your hair into an intricate and braided design— an eleven hairstyle meant to complement your dress. You knew from the start that it would pair with the gown in a more superior way than the styles of Minas Tirith, but you didn't know how to make all of the tiny braids frame your face correctly.

Though they begged you to remove your leather pouch so they could deliver it to your temporary room at the castle — complimentary to all reception guests, apparently — you insisted on keeping it. Even if the king did entertain a request to allow you here, you assumed the novelty of your presence would wear off quickly. You would be leaving for home shortly after supper. After much insistence from the maidens, who undoubtedly were far more conscious than you of how the bag ruined the silhouette of your dress, you relented and abandoned the pouch with the promise that it could be fetched in an instant. Your trusty hip flask remained tethered to your thigh, though. Despite the casks of wine, you felt as if you still might need it.

The maidens poised you in front of a silvery glass that reflected your image as if you were staring into a clear lake. Though you looked becoming before, they helped you to radiate like warm sunlight. You couldn’t help but grin widely when you saw yourself.

Two maidens led you through a maze of hallways and stairwells before arriving at the opened entrance of a high-ceiling banquet hall.

Deep green banners embroidered with the Leaves of Lorien hung from the walls and ceiling of the white stone room. An array of benches and tables were neatly lined on the floor, each one dotted with decorative centerpieces here and there. Beyond the seating for the gusts was a small dance area where a 10 player band jovially tooted horns and played stringed instruments you had never seen. Looming above it all was a high table where those of honor would sit for part of the festivities. For now, though, the were greeting guests.

You bowed deeply to the king and his beautiful partner who politely inquired more about your gown. You affirmed your support of Aragorn's reign and thanked him for allowing you to attend before moving along.

Your greetings to Gandalf the White and Frodo Baggins were gracious, short and kind. Pippin Took, Legolas Greenleaf and Gimli, son of Glóin, received you similarly.

You tried to focus on the next person who greeted you, but were nearly shaking with nerves. What would Samwise say when greeting you? What would you say back? What did he mean by calling you beautiful? Did he mean it in a pure sense or a lustful one? How could you properly continue a conversation that ended with “I live alone?!” You felt your heart rate anxiously increase at the influx of hypothetical questions.

You were snapped out of your thoughts by the feeling of two slightly clammy hands grasping yours.

“Meriadoc Brandybuck, miss. What an honor to see you once more,” he said. The sincerity in his eyes and voice took you by surprise.

“You remember me from this morning, then? Meriadoc, tell me. Did Samwise invite me in jest?" you fretted. "Why am I here?”

“Sam…?”

“I'm not like these folks. Being here makes me feel like a... a bat among birds. Just so out of place.”

“Do not worry. You are very welcome here,” he assured.

You locked eyes with him very briefly, stomach fluttering at the warmth in his words. He was the silly hobbit you caught staring earlier, you realized.

“How kind of you to say that. Thank you, Meriadoc.”

"Just Merry is fine."

"Thank you, just Merry."

You took a deep breath before moving on. Sam was the final person to greet. Though you were nervous, it was nothing unusual. He thanked you for coming and again gushed over the bread you shared earlier that morning. He encouraged you to make the most of the celebration. That was all.

You felt it strange that he made no mention of making a point to see you later that evening.

You sat beside Meurilae and a few other familiars. Dinner was decadent— spiced, tender roasted fowl was served with all the fixings. Homemade cakes with a dollop of cream frosting and berry preserves were for desert. You could not have made a better ones yourself. Though you had mourned the loss of your stew, this was certainly more than sufficient of a replacement.

What room in your stomach was not occupied by food was quickly filled with spirits. Thanks to the castle’s attentive servants, your goblet was never more than half empty at all times. Though it was no Homebrew, you adored the fine wine and drank heartily knowing that tonight was likely the last you would ever taste it. You soon felt its influence over your body and mind. Your inhibitions loosened, allowing you to joke, talk and dance freely with those who were unfamiliar to you. Despite the regal air of the event, you were pleased to notice it began to mirror the shenanigans seen at Pembley's Pub on long nights.

A handsome man convinced you to join in on a jig. A circle formed on the dance floor. Though it took you a moment, you quickly picked up on its steps and learned that periodically switching partners was part of its ritual. Changing partners for the third time now, you were surprised when the next arm that met yours hooked around at a position lower than your other two partners had. Your head tilted up in a laugh when you saw it was Merry dancing by your side.

The only hobbit in the circle, you were impressed that he was able to keep up with the nimble movements the dance called for. Though he matched you step for step, behind his jovial expression were eyes that reflected slight panic.

When the music signaled to change partners, you laughed when he instead pulled you away and into the center of the circle. There, you continued to perform the same dance with a few more flourishes thrown in. Notably, too, instead of hooking his arm in yours, Merry placed his hands at your waist. Some may have considered it bold, but you did not mind. It made the steps feel much more fluid.

Sometimes he deviated from the normal movements, spinning you outward and then pulling you closely back to him. Occasionally he would dip you back far enough so you could look into his eyes. Those gorgeous, gorgeous eyes. The proximity of your body to his made you feel like you could carry on like this forever.

You barely noticed the song had ended until those around you paused to clap for the musicians. You and Merry smiled at each other, both trying to catch your breath.

"Sorry I stole you from the others. I was afraid the next girl would step on my feet."

"What made you think I would not step on them?"

"Well, you didn't, didn't you?"

“Oh, I'll give you that, just Merry. How you moved me around like that was... something."

"I hope that's not the only time you say that to me."

You swear he winked after saying that. Feeling a blush rise in your cheeks, you giggled coquettishly and began to turn away from him.

“I grow thirsty. Promise you will find me for another dance soon?”

You picked up your goblet which you had left beside Meurilae and her friends. Reliably, it was brimming with liquor. Taking a long gulp, you glanced around to see if Sam was near. You were curious if he had watched you and your pretty dress swish around the dance floor at all. You had peered up at him at his seat at the high table periodically while eating earlier. He drank and ate plenty, laughing with Frodo often. He never seemed to return your gaze, though.

“I don’t understand it, Meurilae,” you said. “He invites me to the biggest to-do of this century and he’s barely done so much as blow a fart in my direction this whole time.”

She snorted at the awful expression.

“I don't understand what you mean. It looked like you were having a fine time,” she said, words slightly slurred by drink. “What more can he do?”

“Sweep me off my feet and kiss me sweetly under the full light of the moon," you said mockingly.

Everyone snickered.

"He just might yet," Meurilae said.

“But really! Samwise has barely spoken to me this evening. D'you think he could be waiting for a moment to do something like that?”

Meurilae’s joyful expression stagnated.

“Samwise?”

“Yes! Gamgee. I gave him food and showed my leg. Isn't that why he wanted me here?”

She gave a big, belly laugh in response.

“What?”

“You’ll see.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You’ll see! That’s all,” she laughed. "How much have you drank?"

"Enough, but I still have my wits. Why?"

"Because you must be blind and drunk if you cannot see the signs by now."

"See what?!"

"You'll find out."

You had noticed a few folk pass through a door on the west side of the room. Glancing at it, you had caught glimpses of a courtyard behind it, one encased in tall hedges. In need of a break from your company and some fresh air to blow away the smell of sweat, you curtly excused yourself from the table.

Outside, the setting sun cast a warm glow on the landscape. Aside from the hedges, a few stone benches nestled near a large water fixture caught your eye. Walking towards them, you recognized a sandy-haired hobbit casually swinging his legs back and forth while seated on one.

“Sam? Could that be you?” you said tentatively.

“Yes it is, miss. I’m so glad you came. Will you join me?"

Wordlessly, you obliged. Now a master of moving around in your dress, you didn't even have to pick up your skirts when you walked. You sat together in comfortable silence, the only noises coming from the fountain and the occasional sloshing liquid in his cup as he swirled the contents contemplatively.

You focused on how the light bounced off the water of the fountain until you found the courage to address him.

"Is there something you wanted to say to me?" you tentatively asked.

"Not in particular. I just enjoy company."

"Myself as well."

Silence again.

In a second attempt to garner his attention, you lifted your skirts and showed your hidden flask.

"How about some Homebrew?"

He turned his head away and waved a dismissive hand.

"Nah. I have my wine."

You grunted slightly in unrest and let your gown fall back into place.

"Something the matter?"

You deeply inhaled before asking what had been on your mind all night.

"Do you think I am beautiful?”

Though calm, an ounce of emotion (perhaps confusion or frustration) was evident in your voice. All you wanted was for someone to finally answer plainly why you were invited to the most prestigious party in all of Middle-earth.

“Oh, of course I do, miss. But in a different way than you might think.”

The coolness of his response helped sooth your nerves a little.

“I mean no offense, but courting you is not my intention. You see, there is this hobbit woman in the Shire whom I have adored for so long. She has been all I can think of lately, miss. Being in the company of good food and friends is nice, but all I want to do is go home and see her. Now, please do not take that to mean I am not fond of the friendship we found this morning. It was special _and_ delicious," he laughed. "What I am trying to say is... there is someone else who adores you.”

“Please, _please_ tell me who,” you whined.

Sam looked a bit surprised.

“D'you not know?”

You nearly threw your hands up in defeat.

"Everyone but me," you sighed. "I must be dense."

Samwise pat your shoulder comfortingly.

“No you are not, miss. You are just looking for the wrong hobbit."

He walked back through the door to rejoin the celebration. Defeated, you rested your head in your hands and your elbows on your knees. You watched the sky dim to a smokey blue color as the sun dipped further beneath the horizon. Though not fully dark, the bright moon shone clear up above.

What did Samwise mean by "'wrong hobbit?" 

Before you could ponder the riddle too much further, you heard the door to the banquet hall swing open and the unmistakable padding sound of footsteps approaching. An arm rested casually on the back of your bench.

“Lovely night, isn’t it?” a familiar voice said cooly.

“Ah, just Merry,” you said with a sigh. “Come to ask for another dance?”

You turned to meet his face and were surprised to find him so close to you. Still seated, you actually had to look up at him to meet his gaze. He was awfully tall for a hobbit. Though you were familiar with the typically light brown color of his hair, it looked darker in the dimming light. You nearly reached out to stroke the curls of it. Though it darkened his hair, the growing night amplified the blue of his irises. He must have seen something beautiful changing in your eyes, too, because he was staring as intently into your gaze as you were into his.

"Not this time, no," he replied after a moment of heated silence.

Merry nearly whispered his next words, slowly inching his face closer. Feeling the heat of his breath on your skin as he leaned towards your ear made tingles reverberate throughout your whole body.

"I was hoping you could show me where you keep your flask again, beautiful."

Suddenly, you solved the riddle.

You weren't sure who embraced who first, but before you could give any thought to decency, you were laid back on the bench with Merry on top.


End file.
